


Perchance to Dream

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-07
Updated: 1998-04-07
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Perchance to Dream by Bagpipes

**_Perchance to Dream_**

**By Bagpipes**

**_Note_ This is an updated version **

_Disclaimers:_ All standard stuff applies. Highlander and its characters are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, Davis/Panzer, etc. They have been used without permission. No profit of any kind was made by this tale; it's meant for entertainment only. Caitlin Somerled is a character of my own creation and may not be used by anyone else for any reason without my permission. Please do not copy, archive, distribute, etc. this story without asking me first. Special thanks to everyone who helped me with editing! 

* * *

Snow drifted down from the overcast afternoon sky, steel gray clouds adding to the already substantial amount of frosty whiteness on the ground. People crowded the sidewalks along the row of shops lining Seacouver's tourist area, many of them students returning to the university for the fall quarter. Heavy boots crunching the packed snow as he walked, long duster hiding his sword, Methos blended with the endless stream of people, just another guy in the crowd. He had wandered into a few of the stores, hoping to find something unusual for MacLeod's upcoming birthday, but nothing he'd seen so far seemed appropriate. And December twenty-first was still a ways off, considering that it was only mid-autumn. 

_What do you get someone who's been around for over four centuries? Silverware? Lead crystal? Soap on a rope? Maybe MacLeod would like some merit badges for the Boy Scouts. It would definitely be appropriate._ Methos turned a corner and headed for the university campus, pondering. 

Joe Dawson and Don Salzer were the only two people he'd bought birthday gifts for on a regular basis in the last few decades. Methos had avoided becoming overly attached to most new acquaintances during the past two centuries; it was just safer for everyone involved. And then he'd joined the Watchers, met Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod, and remembered what it was like to have real friends again. 

Very few of his kind had more than one or two valued friends. In Methos' opinion, Duncan was something of a prodigy in this respect. After keeping such a low profile for the last decade or so with the Watchers, Methos hadn't realized how much he had wanted to trust someone again until he'd met the Highlander. It wasn't as if he had never liked Joe and the Watchers, but having an Immortal friend to share the world with made things so much easier. Mortal men and women couldn't understand what centuries of isolation and secrecy were like, how it could eat away at your sanity at times, no matter how often you told yourself that it was for the better good. 

"Don't worry about your present state of being, my friend," Darius had once told Methos. "Think about the future. There are those of us who can be trusted, if you know where to look. One day you may meet one of them, and when you do, you'll know what true friendship is." 

Methos had smiled at the monk. 

"I already have." And the two Immortals had given each other a firm handshake over mugs of ale. The fondly remembered conversation brought more memories. Darius had been one of the monks crossing the English channel with Methos in the eighth century, and despite the foul weather and lack of creature comforts, they had had conversations about Immortality and life in general that most philosophers could only dream about. 

_Trust Darius to bring someone out of their "Immortal blues."_ Methos reached underneath the collar of his sweater and pulled at the leather cord he wore around his neck. At the end of the string was a finely made gold ring done in Irish Celt knotwork with the inscription By land and by sea engraved along one side. The ring was actually a puzzle link: once taken apart, it became two separate circles. Along the ring's other rim, on the second piece, was the same inscription in Latin: _Per mare, per terras._

Darius had given the ring--whole--to Methos as a parting gift. After the boat journey, the monk had decided to stay where they had landed, built himself a house, and shared his teachings, both religious and general, with the residents of a nearby village. Taken with the holy man's insight and knowledge, Methos had decided to stay as well; they could learn much from each other's Immortal journeys. Darius agreed. Before either of them had realized it, eleven years of fireside talks and chess games had passed since they had landed on what was now a familiar shore, and Methos had walked the short distance from his house to the monk's, his journals carefully packed and a wineskin of Darius' finest home-brewed mead at his side. 

At hearing Methos speak of leaving, Darius had understood. The quest for further knowledge was too strong for his fellow Immortal to stay in one place for too long. The monk had taken the ring from his hand and given it to Methos. 

_Remember me throughout the years, my friend. I hope we meet again._ And they had parted ways, then, each to his own destiny. Many years would pass before they would cross each other's paths again. The most recent meeting had been just two years before the massacre at Darius's chapel. Beloved Darius, who had been slain on Holy Ground, by a mortal, with no other Immortal friends nearby to either save him or absorb his Quickening. Centuries of knowledge and life lost forever. Thinking of James Horton was enough to make Methos want to drive his blade through the nearest tree. He hadn't known the man long, but hadn't trusted him from the instant Joe had introduced them to each other at a Watcher's campout they had thrown together once. 

_If only I'd known. I had my suspicions, yes, but nothing to go on . . . until MacLeod found the Hunters out. And by then he'd taken matters into his own hands._ Methos took a minute to breathe in the cool air and center his thoughts again. His walk had taken him to the beginning of a beautiful, tree-lined pathway running across the main campus yard, and he took the path willingly, reveling in the near silence of the frosty landscape. Tucking the ring back under his sweater, the ancient Immortal suddenly felt the overpowering weariness of countless centuries on his shoulders. 

_Maybe hanging out at the school's library will help. They've got a coffeehouse in the place now; I'll go check it out and give 'Adam Pierson' a relaxing evening among colleagues and Methos a well-deserved break from the Game, even if it's only for a few hours--_

An abrupt shove jolted Methos out of his thoughts as a small mountain of books, accompanied by a yelp of pain, suddenly appeared at his side and cascaded into him, hitting the damp, snowy pathway with an impressive _smack_. 

* * *

Caitlin was having a bad day. 

It had started out calmly enough; breakfast, feed the cat, school, fencing lessons, then a trip to the bookstore to find what she needed for her classes. The store had been a chaotic mess of long lines, endless waiting, and rowdy scholars. By the time she had gotten her small but heavy pile, Cait was ready to grab the nearest person in front of her and use him or her as a punching bag. Instead, she went out the nearest door and crossed the street, hoping the cold air would relieve some of her pent up energy. Pulling out her receipt, Caitlin read off various items on the list that had somehow fallen into the black hole that lived in the bookshop basement. 

"'Out of stock.' 'On reorder.' How are we supposed to-- _ooof_!" 

Caitlin and the mushy ground suddenly became friends as she slammed into something, her books splattering in all directions and a loud clang echoing in her ears as her fencing equipment hit the pavement. She flinched at that more than the sudden pain in her hand. She'd just bought a new saber, and denting the handguard on it wasn't on her list of priorities. Neither was re-injuring her previously fractured wrist. Caitlin swiped her long black hair out of her face and looked up to see what she had run into. Hiking boots, worn jeans, baggy sweater, brown hair. Just your everyday university student, who regarded her with a bemused expression on his face, gold-green eyes looking at Cait as though she were a puppy that had lost its way. 

_Why do I always end up embarrassing myself in front of the cute ones?_ Caitlin's anger had transformed to red-faced mortification. Whoever the guy was, she definitely wasn't planning on using him as a punching bag. 

"Damn! I'm sorry about this--" Cait began collecting her things. 

Methos watched as the young woman in front of him looked down at her books, making a face at the slop they had neatly landed in. Scowling, she rubbed at her wrist in irritation, leaning against a large, unwieldy pouch that had landed next to her. It took Methos a minute to realize what it was; he hadn't used fencing blades for centuries, and the sight of the bag was almost quaint, in a way. 

"Here, let me help." Methos crouched down next to the girl and began wiping off the worst of the wet snow and mud from the books with the edges of his coat, being careful to keep his sword out of sight. 

"I've been having one of those days, you know? First I had to walk all over campus trying to find my books for the new semester, and then I had to change two of my classes because of those requirements the college has. . ." The woman stopped and sighed. "I'm beginning to wonder where my brain is today--I'm Caitlin Somerled." She stuck out a glove for a handshake, then stopped as she saw the iced mud dripping off of it. Smiling sheepishly, she said, "You probably think I'm an idiot." 

Methos got his first good look at his bedraggled companion since they'd started picking up her books. She had long, raven colored hair tied back into a braid, striking blue-gray eyes, and seemed determined to get herself put back together again as soon as possible. 

"Adam Pierson. And no, I don't think you're an idiot. Besides, playing in mud puddles is a hobby of mine." 

Caitlin grinned at that, then looked at him closely with a curious expression on her face. 

"You look familiar," she said. 

Methos tensed slightly. Very few people outside his circle of Immortal friends knew his true identity, but still. . . 

"The library! You're the one who's always planted on that old couch by the history books on weekends, aren't you?" 

"Yeah, you could say I've grown attached to the place." Nothing to worry about this time. Good. Methos cast a glance at Caitlin's hand, which she was flexing, apparently satisfied that it still worked. 

"Mind if I take a look? I've had some medical training." 

"You're a pre-med student?" 

"Once. I decided to pursue . . . other career options." 

"Can't blame you there. The amount of studying they give out would drive most people nuts." She held out her arm. Methos felt the bones in her wrist, his ever-wary mind also noting the absence of any mysterious tattoos belonging to a particular agency he'd once been involved with. 

"There's not much I can tell you, except that it feels like you've broken it in the past." Methos felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. Broken bones were no picnic, even for Immortals. Pain was pain. 

"Yeah, it happened about a year ago. Still bothers me once in awhile. Take my advice: stay away from icy walkways." 

"That's something I can agree with." Methos kept his tone conversational, giving away nothing. 

Someday Caitlin Somerled would have more to worry about than iced pavement. 

He pushed the thought away as they proceeded to clean snow and mud from the rest of the fallen texts, and Methos couldn't help glancing at some of the titles: Bronze Age Britain. Stoneworks of Ireland. Skara Brae: Mystery of the Orkney Islands. 

"You're taking history courses?" 

"Yeah. My ancestors came from Europe--mostly Britain and Ireland--and I'm trying to learn everything I can about the place because I'd really like to go there someday." She glanced around at her books, making sure they were all accounted for. "You're studying history too?" 

"You could say that. I've. . .done a lot of traveling in Europe. It's beautiful country. Open roads, mountain peaks that take weeks to climb, and everywhere you go, there's a sense of power running through the land. . ." Methos had focused his gaze on the falling snow. 

Caitlin caught herself staring at him for a moment. 

_Not only has this guy been to Europe, he's lived there. And a long time, if that accent is any indication. I've never seen anyone get this intense about their homeland before._

"Adam?" 

Methos blinked, pulling his mind back through the ages, away from a Beltane firedance and back to Caitlin and her pile of books. 

"Sorry. I've. . .had a lot on my mind lately." 

"Heavy study semester?" 

Methos paused only a moment, thinking. _Well, for starters, during the past year or so I've lost several mortal friends, had to watch my first love in centuries fade before my eyes, ousted myself from an organization that gave me a life for the past decade, had my darkest secret revealed and in the process nearly lost my best friend. And last but not least, have been forced to rejoin the Game by circumstances far beyond my control. How about you?_ But he had waited a moment too long; Caitlin could tell he didn't want to discuss whatever was on his mind. Methos waved off the sudden tension between them. 

"It's nothing serious, really." Methos tried to sound casual as he finished brushing invisible mud off of the topmost book on the pile. "Most of it's old news." 

Caitlin mentally kicked herself. _Change the subject or you're going to scare him off,_ she thought. For some reason, she didn't want that to happen. Adam Pierson seemed like a very interesting person. 

"Do you drink coffee?" 

Methos visibly relaxed at the change in topic. 

"I'm more of a beer person myself, but yes." 

"I was thinking about going to that new place at the library later if you'd like to join me. I haven't met anyone around here that seems to be into history as much as you do, except professors, and I thought we could talk for awhile." She began shoving volumes into her backpack. 

"I'd like that. Any particular time?" 

"Eight-thirty work for you? Tonight?" 

"Perfect." Methos stood and gathered up most of Caitlin's remaining books. 

"I can walk you back to your house, if you'd like," he offered. "These look rather heavy." 

"I'll be okay. Thanks though." Adam seemed trustworthy enough but she wasn't taking chances, especially since they had just met each other. Caitlin shoveled more of her books into her pack and took the rest from Methos. "See you at the library?" 

"I'll be there." 

* * *

After Caitlin had gone on her way, Methos decided to head over to MacLeod's dojo for a sparring match. There wasn't much sense in going to the coffeehouse until that night, now, and his mind was still going over his meeting with Caitlin. There was something vaguely familiar about her, as if he had met someone like her in the past. Entering the building, Methos found the workout room dark, except for a few areas spotlit by dimmed security lights that were kept on all day. No Immortal presence assaulted his mind, so both Duncan and his protege were out, apparently. 

_No big deal,_ he thought. _I'll do kata instead._ With that, Methos shrugged out of his coat, pulled off his sweater--swordfighting was easier in a t-shirt--and tossed both to the side of the room. A moment later his leaking boots and water drenched socks joined the coat. Barefoot, the oldest Immortal went through a few simple stretches, then pulled his Ivanhoe broadsword from its hiding place and began a series of moves with the blade, moving in patterns honed over countless centuries, metal flashing when he passed through the lit areas of the room. Time faded away into the back of Methos' mind as he continued the battle-dance, focusing on parrying, attacking, defending. Surviving. 

And across the street, in an abandoned building, somebody was Watching. 

* * *

Half an hour after Methos had begun his workout, the characteristic mental "buzz" of an approaching Immortal filled his mind briefly, and he spun towards the doorway, blade cutting the air, continuing the exercise while giving himself a better view of whoever was coming through the entrance. 

_Friend's place or no, that could be anyone,_ Methos thought. He moved to a darkened area of the room. 

Duncan MacLeod walked in, sword in hand, pausing at the door and peering into the dim space before him. 

"Who's there?" 

"Your paperboy." Methos' sarcasm wasn't difficult to mistake, and Duncan relaxed, flipping on the overhead lights. 

"Expecting any trouble?" Duncan set his sword down and tossed his long coat over the banister of the stairway. 

"Not that I'm aware of. I was hoping to spar with you if you had the time." Methos continued his personal duende with the bronze Ivanhoe, pleased that he could show off a little in front of a friend. After having everyone tease him about not being in practice, it felt good to flaunt what he did know. Finishing his last move, Methos dropped to the bench by the wall, sweating, breathing heavily from the exercise. Wiping his face with a towel, he grabbed another and began polishing his weapon. 

"Take a break and I'll join you in a minute." Duncan went upstairs to his loft and came back a few minutes later wearing an elegant Japanese silk shirt and pants, his hair tied back in its usual ponytail. Picking up his katana, MacLeod walked to the center of the room. Methos followed, and, facing each other across the floor, they made a formal bow. 

"So what's on your mind?" Duncan sent a flurry of blows after his opponent, all of which were blocked or evaded. Methos returned the attack, feinting, trying to draw Duncan's guard to the wrong side. 

"Was I that obvious?" Methos blocked a high attack and riposted. Duncan decided to back away at the last second and they circled each other, both warriors searching for an opening in the other's form. Methos spun, faked an opening. Duncan didn't fall for the trick. 

"I met someone at the university this afternoon. She wants to go out for coffee tonight." Their blades met, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the room. 

"Really? What's she like?" 

"History student. Lots of stuff from the British isles." Methos paused, trying to find an unprotected field of defense. "She recognized me from my weekend research retreats." 

"Is she one of us?" 

"Not yet." 

Duncan suddenly rushed an attack, catching Methos off-guard and sending him sliding backwards. The older Immortal caught MacLeod's katana in a bind, trying to disarm him. Mac held his ground, and their blades locked at the hilt. 

"Give up yet?" The Highlander grinned. 

"Never." Methos tried to follow through with his original binding maneuver but lost his balance and fell to the dojo floor. Sitting up on his elbows, Methos sent MacLeod a look. 

" _Ow._ " Sarcasm coated the word. Mac reached out a hand and pulled his friend to his feet. 

"You fell on your own, this time." Duncan remembered a day not too long past when they had been discussing Kristin. 

_At least we don't have our blades at each other's neck today_. 

"Care for another round?" Duncan spun his katana around to an en garde. 

"Ready when you are." 

They continued fighting on and off for another hour, only stopping when Methos insisted on returning home to repair his boots--again--and find something to wear to the coffeehouse that wasn't waterlogged or shredded from an encounter. 

Once back at his new Seacouver flat, Methos decided to stick with his student image. Showing up wearing a two-hundred dollar silk shirt would certainly look nice, but he'd also be sticking out in the crowd a bit too much. Stepping out of the shower, he traded the sweater for an old Rolling Stones t-shirt, and his ruined boots for an older pair that were nearly worn through but could still hold out the snow. Glancing at an antique clock on the wall, Methos noticed that he had plenty of time to kick back and relax before leaving. Tossing a few logs in his fireplace, the Immortal soon had a comfortable blaze going. 

Staring into the flames, a thought from ages past hit him. And he remembered someone from long ago, the someone Caitlin had reminded him of. . . 

* * *

_Britain, 73 C.E.  
Territory of the Iceni Celts_

Late summer sun shone through the forest, the light turning the fallen leaves brilliant shades of gold, brown, and fiery red. The rolling hills and wide expanse of land had been home to many different peoples over the years. Today it was being coveted by the Roman army. 

Booted feet crushed leaves as the Roman soldiers marched in orderly ranks, dragging their bound prisoner along with them. Once the company had reached their destination--a large encampment surrounded by milling guards--the men stopped, pulling their captive to the front of the group. A swift kick to the back of the legs forced the man to his knees. A familiar sensation filled the prisoner's mind, and he raised his head to face the lodge they had stopped at, hazel eyes blinking through his long, flowing hair. 

The Roman centurion in charge of the resident legion stepped out of the lodge, in full armor. His short hair was neatly cut, and his piercing gray eyes missed nothing. As they settled on the captive man, they glimmered with humor, but he did not smile. 

"Take him back where we had the others." He spoke fluent Latin. The man turned on his heel and strode back into his abode, pushing a door closed behind him. 

Three guards complied with their commander's orders, hauling the captive to his feet by his bound hands. They led him along a footpath to a large clearing where a series of X-shaped scaffolds made from large timber posts stood. Some of them had dark, faded stains running along their grain. One guard undid his bonds while the other two kept him at swordpoint. His hands and feet were tied securely to one of the crossed posts, and the guards left. 

Looking at their retreating backs, Methos sent daggers at them with his eyes from his new prison. Testing his bonds, the Immortal sighed. He wouldn't be escaping anytime soon. 

Throughout the rest of the day Methos watched the Romans as they went about their daily lives, drilling, socializing, joking with one another. Occasionally some of the younger soldiers would walk over to Methos and shout crude remarks at him, thinking that the camp's prisoner couldn't understand anything that was said. They would boast about how this was their first battle assignment against Britannia, and how they would someday rule the island. Some of the more daring men made questionable remarks about Methos' ancestry and about where they thought he should go. 

Methos ignored the taunting; they were only boys in his eyes, playing the schoolyard bully. As for the colorful phrases referring to his final destination, the Immortal silently laughed until he couldn't hold it in any longer. Laughed until he nearly had tears running down his face. He looked up at the men, a look of dark humor in his eyes. They had obviously never met anyone like Kronos. 

"What goes on here??" A loud voice, in Latin. 

The youthful soldiers immediately snapped to attention as their centurion strode over. "Return to your duties!" 

Dispersing like rabbits before a falcon, the men went off to their tasks. The centurion turned towards Methos in the lengthening shadows of the late hour, a slight smirk on his face. 

"We meet again, Methodius. Or is it Mythos? I've forgotten which." The man regarded Methos with all the compassion of a trader looking at a good war horse. "I see you've decided to join the barbarian Celts we've been fighting here." He looked at the spirals and interlaced designs painted in blue that Methos had decorated himself with, and snorted. 

"Call me whatever you like, Teldonius. It won't save your head when the time comes!" Methos fairly snarled the words at him in Latin. 

"It looks like I'm the one with the advantage here, 'old friend'." Teldonius stepped closer. "I could take your head right now, but I won't. You're going to serve as an example to all of those Celtic tribes out there who think they can beat us back. Vercingetorix failed, Boudicca failed. Rome will have this land as its own." 

"And what part do I get to play in this sordid affair?" 

Teldonius' eyes burned into Methos. 

"You're going to accompany every scouting party I send out from this camp and tell every Celtic tribe that the only way to live is as part of our empire." 

"And if I refuse?" 

"Then I'll take your head myself. It should be very. . .motivational for my army." Teldonius moved to leave. "I'll let you stay here for a few more hours to give you time to think. And for your sake, I hope you make the right choice." The centurion marched off. 

_Oh, I will, you pompous fool. I will._ Methos sent the thought in Teldonius' direction, straining at his bonds, but the ropes held. Sighing, the Immortal remembered when he and Teldonius had first met, during Julius Caesar's reign. 

They had both had respect among Caesar's followers, Methos as a scholar and tactical advisor, and Teldonius as a leader of men. The two had become friends, and remained so until the day Methos had simply had enough of the endless plotting and scheming that most of the centurions thrived on. So he decided to leave the Romans and start again somewhere else as he had done countless times before. Teldonius had confronted Methos after the older Immortal had successfully pretended to "die". 

"You're a traitor, Methodius!" Teldonius had been furious. "Caesar needs you! Rome needs you! I swear to you on my honor as a warrior, if you leave now I'll have your Quickening no matter how long it takes to track you down!" 

"Then you'd better stand in line." And Methos had turned away, heading out of the city for parts unknown. 

_And how long ago was that, now?_ Methos wondered. _At least thirty years? Something like that._

He remained where he was for the rest of the afternoon, with no one bothering to bring him food or anything else. By the time the sun had set, Methos was incredibly hungry and parched, but there wasn't much he could do except watch his captor's army drilling in the compound. Methos had just begun to drift off in sleep when the buzz of a nearby Immortal hit him. Looking up, instantly awake, Methos scanned the camp for Teldonius, but he was nowhere to be seen. The only activity was from the occasional gathering of bored guards as they kept stands of torches lit along and among the lodges making up the settlement. Loud battle cries shattered the peaceful scene, and in seconds hundreds of warriors burst from the nearby forest. They weren't the armor-plated Roman soldiers. 

Methos watched as a horde of Celts roared their way through the camp, stopping for nothing and screaming battle cries as loudly as possible. Most were on foot, but a few rode horses. One of these riders galloped over to where Methos was tied. The sense of an Immortal presence struck him again as the warrior came closer. She had long braided hair that went nearly to her ankles, traditional battle designs painted on her face, and a shining gold torc around her neck. And she fought with a Roman broadsword, something Methos found suitably ironic. 

_Undoubtedly the leader of this tribe,_ Methos thought. 

"Can you fight?" The woman spoke one of the Celt languages. 

"I have no argument with you." The older Immortal answered in the Celt dialect he'd picked up, hoping she could understand enough of what he said to communicate. Methos merely wanted to find Teldonius and claim his Quickening. The Celt leader paused, working her way through the partially familiar words the captive was using. The meaning was clear enough. She leapt from her horse, sword shining with reflected fire in the torchlight. Walking closer to Methos, the warrior woman raised the blade-- 

\--and sliced through the ropes holding him to the posts. 

Methos rubbed at his wrists, wishing he had his own sword back. He looked at his mysterious benefactor, who had lowered her blade and was offering him another she had kept on her horse. She held it out to him hilt first. Methos hesitated--he'd had similar offers of peace before with less than favorable results--but the Celtic woman wasn't making any threatening moves. Taking the offered weapon, Methos spun it around, testing its balance. He looked back at the rider. 

"I owe you my life." 

The tribal leader had climbed back onto her horse, hand held out to Methos. 

"Will you join me in scouring this land of the one who calls himself Teldonius?" 

"Gladly. I've been waiting to challenge him--" 

"No!" The Celt's eyes turned sharp, and her tone was final. "By Brigid, if anyone takes his worthless head tonight it will be me! I swore to Boudicca that I would find the one who helped the monster that all but destroyed the Iceni, and no one is going to force me from that vow!" She stared at Methos, daring him to say or do otherwise. 

"Then at least let me help you get to him. I've been watching him for most of this day, and I know which shelter is his." 

"Agreed." She pulled Methos up onto the horse behind her, and they took off through the frenzied battles that had started between the Romans and Celts. Most of the Roman contingent had been sent to other areas of the land weeks before, leaving less than half of their usual number to guard the encampment. It was enough to not take lightly, but not overwhelming for what looked like nearly one thousand Celt warriors. 

As he settled on the horse and readied his new blade, Methos turned to the woman. 

"Do you have a name?" 

"Ceirdwyn." And the horse was encouraged to a full gallop, hooves pounding the earth. 

And from all sides, the battle cries of the Celts rose above the clash of blades and shields as they charged once more. . . 

Methos blinked, not realizing that he'd nearly fallen asleep. The old clock chimed; he had fifteen minutes to get to the library. Throwing ash onto the fire, Methos grabbed his coat and took a quick inventory of his personal arsenal hidden inside as he put it on: sword, dagger, gun, and cellular phone. It never hurt to be prepared for anything. 

* * *

The coffeehouse was packed, but not overwhelmingly so. Students and professors mingled together in an environment where they could interact on the same level as equals. The rich aroma of coffee mixed with the scent of baking cookies, fresh pie, and well-worn books. Across from the counter was a small stage where anything from local bands to stand-up comedy was shown. Tonight there was a lone student on stage, playing a lively blues tune that Joe would've liked. Methos found a table among the few empty ones left and took a seat, slouching back and enjoying the music while he waited. 

"You made it!" Caitlin appeared out of the din by the door and sat down at the table, red-faced from the cold. She had her backpack slung over one shoulder, a few books and papers stuffed inside. 

Tossing the backpack onto one of the empty chairs at the table, Caitlin went over to the counter and came back with two glass mugs filled with hot chocolate latte, complete with whipped cream. 

"My treat. You're the first guy I know who hasn't tried to stand me up for some lame excuse." Settling down at the table, Cait peeled off her coat and slung it over the back of her chair. They sat for a minute, sipping at their coffee and feeling the chill from the weather leave them. 

"So where are you from?" Caitlin stirred her coffee as she waited for it to cool. 

"Various places. And you?" 

"I've lived in Seacouver my whole life. Just me and my cat now. And my books." Cait poked at the melted topping on her coffee. "I've been studying different ancient European cultures for the past year. It's hard to believe how difficult it was to survive back then. Constant battles, Viking raids. . ." 

"Not all Vikings went looking for trouble. Some of them were only searching for other people to make allies with, and to learn from." Methos took a drink of coffee. "Most historians believe that the raid on Lindisfarne was only meant for plunder, but some of the men in the raiding party were only after texts. The invasion itself was brief, violent and terrifying to the people of Northumbria." 

"You sound like you were there." 

"In Northumbria? Impossible, it's too cold there." 

"And what about England?" 

"Too many castles; they're quite drafty and uncomfortable." 

Caitlin sent Methos a wry grin. 

"Somebody's being cynical today." She didn't know what to expect in response to the observation, but the winning grin from Methos surprised her. 

_He's teasing me. Well, two can play at this game._

"Scotland." 

"Sheep all over the place. You can't step anywhere." 

"Africa?" 

"Too hot." 

"The rainforest." 

"Too wet. The mosquitoes are larger than this table." 

Caitlin leaned back in her chair in a frank imitation of her companion. 

"Hawaii. Antarctica. Tibet." 

"Volcanic eruptions. Too many penguins. And the mountains are too tall." 

Caitlin finally laughed. 

"I give up! You win! I bet you can't name one thing about tonight that doesn't come out as a cynical comment!" 

"That's easy. I'm sitting here talking with you." 

The casual remark threw Caitlin off guard, and she felt herself blushing. 

_Good grief. He's charming and cute. I'm in trouble._

They left the cafe sometime later discussing the origins of fencing. Methos was about to suggest getting together again next week when his Immortal senses flashed a warning. Methos stopped, looking around. 

"Forget something at the cafe?" Caitlin began looking through the pockets on her backpack, relieved when everything was still there. 

"Something like that." Adam put his arm protectively around Caitlin and they turned to head back for the library. Their path was blocked by a silhouetted stranger wearing a long coat. 

"Adam Pierson?" The voice was unfamiliar, the face hidden in shadows. 

Methos silently cursed at the other Immortal. He didn't want Cait involved in anything remotely connected with his kind. She still had a mortal life to enjoy first. 

"I think you've mistaken me for someone else." Adam slipped his arm from Caitlin's shoulders, subtly shifting his weight should he need to draw his broadsword. 

"No, I don't think I have. In fact, I've got a friend who would be very interested in meeting you." 

Caitlin looked from the stranger to Methos. She hadn't known Adam very long, but she suddenly felt a lot more comfortable with him around. The guy blocking their path was making her really nervous and her overactive imagination was conjuring up images of him pulling out a knife or gun and using them both for target practice. 

"If you want money, take it. Otherwise, just walk away and leave us alone before somebody gets hurt." _And I can guarantee it won't be me._ Methos was staring their problem directly in the eyes. Anything to delay the inevitable joining of swords. 

"I'm not after money. Just some information--and you've given me plenty already." With that, the man spun on his heel and vanished into the night. Methos watched the other Immortal leave, his body still tensed. The confrontation was over, but he could sense a larger battle beginning. 

"Any idea what that was about?" Caitlin shifted her backpack to a more comfortable spot on her shoulder. Methos turned away from the spot where the other Immortal had been. 

"Hard to say," he told Cait. "You never know what kind of . . . games people have in mind." 

They decided to meet again the following Friday night, then the next one after that, and the one after that. Soon Adam and Caitlin were meeting at the coffeehouse on a weekly basis, discussing Viking settlements, migrations of the Celt tribes, and various other historical topics that kept them talking for hours. One night Caitlin came in bursting with excitement. 

"Check this out, Adam!" She dropped a folder in front of him and sat down, not even bothering to take off her coat. 

Methos opened the folder and scanned through the first few pages. It was Cait's essay report they'd been discussing the last two weeks: Archaic Weaponry of the Western World, and marks of high praise were written across the top of the first page in red ink. 

"Impressive." He handed the report back to his overjoyed friend. "You did a fine job writing this, Caitlin." 

"I owe you one--I never would've gotten some of the information I did if it weren't for your help. Some of the stuff you've told me makes it sound like you were actually fighting with some of these weapons." 

_If you only knew,_ Adam thought. An idea suddenly hit him. 

"Are you busy this weekend?" 

"Not really. My paper's finished. Why?" 

"I think we should celebrate." 

"Where should we go?" Caitlin was still buzzing with energy. 

"I've got an idea . . ." 

* * *

Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan felt the presence of two people--one strong and definitely Immortal; the other muted and faint--before hearing the knock on the loft door. Wiping the last bit of dust from his already spotless countertop, Mac opened the door and was greeted by Methos and Caitlin. 

"Adam's told me about you and Richie." Cait shook hands with the Highlander. From her perspective, he looked strong enough to uproot an oak tree, but his grasp was amiable and solid, not the crushing grip one would expect. Richie pushed himself off of the couch and came over, nodding to Methos and following Duncan's example with Caitlin. 

"Richie's my student." Duncan moved to the fridge and began taking out various dinner items as Methos unloaded a bag of groceries onto the kitchen island. 

"Let me guess--martial arts?" Caitlin asked. 

"Among other things," Richie said. Mac had warned him that their new guest didn't know about Immortals yet, and he didn't want anything to slip. 

Duncan offered Methos and Caitlin some beer from the fridge and tossed one to Richie as well. Adam took off his coat and threw it over a hook on the wall along with Cait's. As he walked back to the pile of dinner ingredients, his duster slid from the hook and dropped with a heavy thunk. 

"I'll get that," Caitlin said. She picked up the fallen garment, looking at it curiously as she hung it back with the others. Methos felt a sense of relief when she avoided looking at any interior pockets. 

"Adam, this thing weighs a ton! What are you hiding in here, a broadsword?" 

Over by the counter, Richie suddenly fell forward, slamming his beer bottle onto the island as he gulped down the beverage. Seconds later he erupted in a fit of coughing as he tried very, very hard not to laugh. He succeeded, but just barely. Taking a breath, the young Immortal leaned back against the counter, trying to compose himself again as though nothing had happened. Caitlin was busy arranging the coat so it wouldn't fall again, but Methos and Duncan were looking at Richie with peculiar expressions. He shrugged an apology, not knowing what else to do or say without spilling everything to Cait. She turned, looking at the three of them. 

"Did I just miss something? An inside joke?" Caitlin got three different responses: 

"Very." 

"Uhm, yep." 

". . ." 

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" She folded her arms and stood in front of Methos, who gave her his best innocent smile. 

"You're incorrigible," she said. "What did your mother ever do with you?" 

"Sent me to my room, if I remember. Go have a seat, Cait, I'm the one making dinner. Take some time out." Methos unfolded a fragile looking piece of paper and began reading ingredients as he started pouring things into a bowl and chopping vegetables. 

"I'll help out." Duncan came over beside Methos and studied the recipe. 

"Lentils and chestnuts . . . this looks familiar." 

"It's the one from the bookstore basement, remember? I told you I'd make it sometime." 

Mac nodded, remembering the aftermath of the Paris flood that year. His barge still had a few small leaks. 

"I'd completely forgotten about it until now." 

Methos emptied a bowl of dark sauce into a pan half full of vegetables and rice, then attacked a mound of carrots and celery, paired ginsu knives reducing the roots and stalks to pieces in a matter of seconds. In minutes the two had a small feast filling the heated wok on Mac's stove, and Richie cleared off the central coffee table, setting out whatever was needed with Cait's help. Soon the four of them were relishing one of the best meals Caitlin could remember eating, with three people she already thought of as good friends. They stayed up late telling stories (nothing Immortal related, for Caitlin's sake), laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves. 

"I hate to break this up, guys, but I've got classes tomorrow." Cait stretched and stood up, followed by Methos. 

"I think that's my cue." The oldest Immortal in the room had made it his personal duty to be Caitlin's chaperone on her walk back to campus. He had told Duncan about the recent encounter with the unknown Immortal, and Mac agreed with his friend's decision. Neither of them wanted someone like Kronos finding Cait. 

"You're welcome to stop in anytime, Caitlin." Duncan saw his friends to the door as they grabbed their coats. 

"Thanks, Mac." Cait felt herself blushing a little as the Highlander gave her one of his warm smiles. 

"What am I, chopped liver?" Methos sent MacLeod a look of feigned injury. 

"You should be paying me rent for all of those naps you've taken on my couch," Duncan said. "And for 'borrowing' my beer." 

"Funny boy." Methos slid his coat on and turned to leave with Caitlin. 

"See you two around," Mac called after them as he closed the door. 

Adam and Cait headed back towards campus, taking their usual route along the pathway where they'd met. Once they had reached Caitlin's apartment building, they paused in front of her door. 

"You cook some mean stir-fry, Adam. I haven't had this much fun for a long time." 

"Neither have I." And it was true. For the first time since the Horsemen had reappeared, Methos felt like a real person again. He reached out to Caitlin and gave her what he had intended to be a brief kiss goodnight, but it ended up lasting a little longer. 

Caitlin looked at Methos, intending to return the favor, but he abruptly acked away, the same closed off look returning to his eyes that she had seen in him when they'd first met. 

"What's wrong?" 

Methos didn't want to lie to her; she would only ask more questions. Half truth, then. 

"I . . . can't . . . shouldn't get involved with anyone right now." _Not anyone mortal. I would only be putting your life in danger before you're ready to face Immortality._ Methos looked out at the horizon, the sky, the ground. Anywhere but at Caitlin. "I've lost too many friends recently." 

Caitlin turned his face back to hers. 

"You don't have to deal with it all by yourself, Adam. Let me help. Isn't there anything I can do?" 

He took her hands in his own. 

"Live," he said quietly. "Enjoy life." 

Caitlin blinked; she hadn't been expecting something quite so profound. Or strange. 

"I will. But what about you? You're too young to be so paranoid." 

"I'll survive. It's what I do best." Methos moved to let Caitlin unlock the front door. Another time and place, and they might've been more than friends. Opening the door, Caitlin stepped inside, turning to regard Methos. 

"I think we should go see a movie or something next week. We can bring Mac and Richie with us and just hang out together without worrying about bad memories or some idiot hiding in the bushes." 

Methos wondered if he had ever been so trusting of the world. 

"Sounds like a plan. Until later then?" 

Caitlin waved good-bye, and the world's oldest graduate student walked off into the night. 

* * *

Methos, Caitlin, and Duncan walked down the street together, talking and animatedly discussing the movie they'd seen. They had just come out of Joe's bar after watching the latest film at the local theater. Richie hadn't been able to join them--he had classes of his own to worry about--so they had promised him another night out sometime. 

Duncan couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Methos so carefree. After losing Alexa and being forced to relive a past nightmare, the ancient Immortal been on the verge of despair. Caitlin's friendship was helping him far more than either of them realized. 

"I didn't know Joe was trying to cut a blues album. What was he calling it? Something about a river . . ." Duncan looked out at the snow, trying to remember the title. 

"I think he called it--" Methos stopped in midsentence and suddenly froze as the mind-buzzing presence of a nearby Immortal assaulted him. Duncan was in a similar state. 

Caitlin dropped the jovial mood as well, going tense as she sensed something was wrong. The same thing had happened before when she and Adam had been confronted. 

"What is it?" Even as she asked the question, Cait had a dreaded feeling about the answer. 

A faint scrape of a foot against slushy pavement. A glint of metal from a shadowed corner. A barely audible hiss. Before anyone had time to react, an inarticulate growl of pain came from Methos as he suddenly doubled over and fell to the ground. 

"Adam?!" Caitlin dropped down beside him, trying to see what he'd been hit with. 

Duncan cursed in Gaelic, pulled his sword, and started running after the now vanished attacker. He stopped after reaching the darkened area that was another twenty feet ahead. He'd left Tessa and Richie in a vulnerable state like this once. He refused to have such a thing happen again. Reparations could wait. Turning back he ran to Methos' side. Caitlin was sitting on the ground, frozen in stunned disbelief at what was happening. Methos slumped against her, his face set in pain. A dark pool of blood was beneath him, staining the white snow a dusky shade of red, and he had his fist wrapped around something sticking out of his ribcage. 

"Let me see." Duncan crouched beside Methos, steeling himself for what he might be looking at. 

The ancient Immortal peeled his hand away from an arrow shaft, a good eight inches worth of which was buried in his side. The wound made by the metal bolt continued to bleed, unable to heal completely because of the obstruction. His breathing had a ragged edge to it, and Duncan surmised that the arrow had gone through a lung. The Highlander immediately decided to send Caitlin to a safer place, not only for her own well being, but because the situation was going to get a lot uglier once he began removing the arrow. Turning to Cait, Duncan held her by the shoulders, eyes intense. Despite her fear, it was imperative that Caitlin understand how dangerous the situation was. MacLeod thought rapidly as he spoke. 

"Caitlin, listen to me. There's a chapel just down the road from here. I want you to go there and wait for me to call. It's too dangerous for you to stay here." 

"Dangerous for me? What about you? What about Adam?? What in the hell is he involved with? People just don't hang out around here and fling arrows at one another! Or swords for that matter! What are you guys, new age Musketeers?" She began to lose what self-control she had managed to hang onto, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. 

"I'll take care of this, Caitlin. Please, do what I'm telling you. It's the safest place for you to be right now." Duncan stared at her until she nodded. Backing away from the scene, Cait turned and took off down the road. Duncan sighed as he watched her go. He returned his sword to its place inside his coat. No other Immortal presence brushed against his mind. 

_What a mess._ He turned his attention to Methos, shaking his head. 

"I'm going to find out who that was, one way or another," MacLeod muttered. Pushing Methos' coat away from the injury, Duncan took a knife out of his own pocket and sliced a rent through his friend's sweater, clearing everything away from the arrow shaft. Taking hold of the thing, Mac placed his other hand around the wound as a brace. 

"Ready?" 

Methos nodded. 

"Just--get--on with it," he hissed. He suddenly felt lightheaded and was afraid to see how much of his blood was decorating the cold ground. Duncan pulled at the arrow, feeling it catch on something more than once. It took a minute or so before the thing was nearly free, and throughout the whole ordeal Methos had barely made any noise, although his fingers were digging furrows into the dirt from the pain. Inhaling the cold winter air was like breathing acid as the arrow was being removed from his chest. MacLeod gave the bolt a final, quick jerk, and Methos yelped, falling back onto the snow and letting out his breath in a rush of air. Pulling himself up, he sat for a moment, feeling the already healing puncture where he'd been hit. He looked in the direction where Caitlin had gone, then at the corner where the assailant had been hiding. Empty. 

_Caitlin. Something tells me I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do soon._ Bright flashes of color spread across Methos' field of vision as the blood loss took its toll. 

"Is it just me, or was this whole thing planned?" With that, Methos dropped back to the ground, consciousness gone, and seconds later his life went with it. Duncan shoved the crossbow quill into a coat pocket and stood, pulling Methos from the cold ground and hauling his friend's limp body across one shoulder. 

_His new house isn't far from here,_ Mac thought. He cast nervous but trained glances up and down the area where he stood. No one was in sight. Turning down a side street, Duncan made his way down the road for another block, then spotted the building. Fishing his friend's keys out of Methos' coat, Mac unlocked the door, shoved it open with a booted foot, and walked inside, kicking the door shut behind him. Without hesitating, he locked it as well. 

_No sense inviting anyone else to join this little party._ Carrying Methos up a flight of stairs, Mac deposited the man on his bed then sat down in a chair to wait, turning on a nearby lamp so he could take a better look at the arrow. It had a wickedly barbed tip, with smaller barbs running up the first third of the metal shaft. Imprinted in its center was an all too-familiar design: the encircled trefoil of the Watchers. It had been crossed out; painted next to it was another Watcher symbol done in red, with the trefoil design inverted. Engraved over that was a pair of crossed swords. 

_??!?!_ Duncan stared at the modified emblem, conflicting emotions running through his mind. His musings were brought to an end as a sharp gasp announced his friend's return to the world of the living. Methos rolled onto his uninjured side, coughing and flinching as his still-healing body reminded him that it would take a few more minutes to complete the regeneration process. Collapsing against his pillows, the aged Immortal closed his eyes. 

"Is Caitlin safe?" 

"For now." Tossing the arrow onto a dresser, the Highlander gave Methos a glass of water. 

"Thanks." The older Immortal took a long drink, trying to rid himself of the faint metallic taste of blood coughing had left him with. He hadn't had to deal with a punctured lung for a long time, and he didn't appreciate the reminder the night had left him with. Finishing the water, he gave MacLeod the glass and fell back onto the bed. The blood loss had left him feeling extremely weak and sleep beckoned to him like a siren's call. Methos turned to look across the room at Duncan. 

"I would've had to explain everything to her sooner or later. It's probably for the best that fate chose 'sooner'." 

Duncan looked down at the floor, wishing there was something he could say that would help patch up the evening. Glancing at Methos, he saw that his friend had already fallen into a deep sleep. Mac turned off the lamp and left the other Immortal to rest. Closing the bedroom door behind him, Duncan headed back downstairs. The adrenaline rush brought on by the attack still hadn't worn off yet, and Mac felt uneasy about leaving Methos while he was in such a vulnerable state. 

_I refuse to lose any more friends to insanity like this,_ Duncan thought. _After what we've had to live through this past year . . . Does it ever let up?_

He decided to give himself a personal tour of Methos' house. He'd only been over once before to help with moving, and had never gotten a really good look at the place since Methos had settled in. Shrugging his coat off onto the floor by the door, MacLeod wandered about his friend's house. The place itself reminded Duncan of a cross between Connor's New York loft and the flat Methos had been living in when they had first met. The only major difference was the lack of a freight elevator. Instead, stairways and a catwalk wove themselves around the main floor in an Escher-like fashion. Fifty centuries' worth of memories filled the house to bursting. 

Before he could absorb himself in Methos' collection, Duncan called the church Caitlin had gone to for refuge. The pastor, a man Duncan had only met once but trusted, put Cait on the line, and Duncan reassured her that "Adam" would be fine in no time, and that he would contact her as soon as he could. Caitlin was still upset on the phone, insisting that nobody could survive being shot in the chest by anything like what she'd seen, and proceeded to give Duncan a colorful list of things she had planned for whoever had shot Adam. Duncan allowed Cait to vent everything to him. She was trying not to burst into tears, and her voice wavered. Mac hated not being able to tell her the entire truth, but the timing wasn't right. It was also something Methos would have to decide. He ended the call by reassuring Caitlin that Adam had a reputation for being difficult to take down, and that he was one of the toughest people he knew. 

After the phone call, Duncan wandered around the place, able to feel Methos in every artifact, weapon and photograph he saw. He scanned a group of photos, among which were several of Alexa. There were some of Joe, himself, some people from the Watchers, and various others from as many different decades. Pages of vellum and papyrus were mixed in, containing ancient messages written in Latin, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Farsi, Mongolian, and what appeared to be an older form of British Celtic. There was even a letter signed by Darius, written in the monk's carefully penned Latin. 

Duncan smiled. He'd have to get Methos to tell him some stories. 

The weaponry Methos had managed to collect was equally impressive. A pair of edged polearms hung over the entrance to the kitchen, their spiked blades crossing over the door. Swords and bladed weapons of every description were either hung on the wall, displayed in cases, or simply rested against a stand. An evil looking flail with a spiked head leaned against an old, heavily battered Roman shield. Next to that was a Viking version, made of wood and held together with leather and bronze. A bronze helmet sat on a stand next to its companion. Hidden against the back wall was the axe Silas had wielded against Methos at Bordeaux. 

Less deadly curiosities lay about the house, intermixed with the arts of war. A handcarved chess set. Jewelry from the present to as far back as the Bronze Age. The metal sculptures Duncan remembered from Methos' Paris flat. Chips of polished bone with runes carved into them. Carvings made of marble and stone. A piece of the Berlin wall. Photographs from a Rolling Stones concert. A vinyl record signed by the lead singer of Queen. 

_It would take years to absorb all of this,_ Duncan thought. Unfortunately, time favored more pressing matters than reminiscing and storytelling. Whoever was behind the modified Watcher insignia found on the arrow obviously wanted to be known. Mac turned to head for the kitchen and found himself facing a suit of fourteenth century armor from England. Once in the kitchen, Duncan rummaged through the fridge, helped himself to a beer, and searched out Methos' couch. His body was finally feeling the adrenaline drop-off and sleep was all the Highlander could think of. Opening the bottle, Duncan took a long drink, set the container on the nearby coffee table, and collapsed on the leather sofa, falling asleep in minutes. 

* * *

Bright winter sunlight woke Duncan the next morning. Stretching, he sat up and looked around, momentarily disoriented, then recognizing his surroundings. Rubbing sleep from his face, Mac got to his feet. Today wasn't going to be much fun. 

_Might as well get something to eat._ Striding out to the kitchen, Mac poked through cupboards and a pantry, gathering up various things to make breakfast with. Soon he had an impressive stack of pancakes sitting on the table and a pot of hot coffee on the stove. Adding a plate of apple slices to the pancakes, Duncan returned to the couch and stretched, deciding to hold off on the food until Methos joined him. The leather was comfortably yielding and the overhead skylight gave him a view of an oak tree that canopied over the roof. It was very relaxing, and MacLeod was considering going back to sleep when he heard a noise. 

Soft footsteps came down one of the stairways, and Mac turned from his cozy perch to see a familiar figure in sweater and jeans sleepily enter the living room, an armful of muddy, bloodstained clothes held under one arm. Methos took in the breakfast on the table and the Scotsman on the sofa. 

"Trying a little role reversal this morning?" Methos tossed the dirty bundle into a hamper and opened the fridge, snatching a carton of orange juice, bottle of real maple syrup, and butter. 

"'Mi casa es su casa,'" Duncan said, grinning. 

"Yeah, I suppose I did say that." Methos tried to smile back as he put the juice and syrup on the table along with glasses and plates for the pancakes, but thinking about the events of the previous night was ruining his effort to be convivial. Duncan rolled off of the couch and went over to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and taking a seat across from his fellow Immortal. They dove into the pancakes and fruit, eating for several minutes before Duncan broke the silence. 

"What are you going to tell Caitlin?" 

Methos finished a pancake and took a deep breath, thinking. 

"I don't know. It's not that I don't trust her . . . I just don't know how to explain it. I've never tried to tell a mortal about what we are before--except for Christine Salzer, but that was different." He contemplated the pot of coffee, poured himself a cup, then looked up at Duncan. 

"How did you explain your Immortality to Tessa?" 

Duncan's mind filled with images from that night. 

"I told her there were things she needed to know if she wanted to live with me. Then I pulled out a gun and shot myself in front of her." Duncan drained his juice glass. 

Methos had an incredulous expression on his face. 

"Wasn't that just a little extreme?" 

"It was--but I knew Tessa could understand. And once I revived, I told her everything. About where I was born, when, and what I was." Mac poked at a pancake. 

"And . . . ?" 

"And I was right. She was one of the few mortal women in my life to accept me and my life for what it was, and we spent twelve years together that I wouldn't trade anything for." 

Methos nodded, staring at his empty plate. Part of him wanted to fade away, stay detached, keep things simple. But it was already too late. He and Caitlin both had feelings for one another; not quite love, just a strong friendship, as though she were a long-lost family member. He couldn't leave her wondering about the truth. 

"Bloody hell. This isn't going to be easy." Methos put his elbows on the table, resting his forehead against a palm. He stayed that way for a minute, thinking about too many things at once. 

"Let me go with you. I might be able to help." 

Methos shook his head. 

"Normally I'd take you up on the offer, Mac, but this is something I have to do alone." 

"You can always come over to the loft, if there's anything you need." 

"I know. Besides, I've got a patent on couch-crashing." 

Duncan laughed. He had to admit, his leather sofa just wouldn't be the same without Methos sprawled out over it. They began clearing dishes from the table. Mac went upstairs, retrieved the arrow from the bedroom dresser, and returned to the kitchen. Methos wasn't going to like what the arrow had to say. 

_And neither is Joe,_ Duncan thought. But they both needed to be told. 

"There's something odd about that arrow you got hit with." 

"What?" 

Duncan placed the object in question on the countertop. 

Methos' eyes widened at the sight of the barbed object, dried blood still splotched on the tip. He picked it up by the feathered end. 

"Look at the symbols in the middle." Mac was staring at something on the wall. 

Doing so, Methos felt a flash of anger and exasperation. Slamming the bolt onto the counter, he walked in an agitated circle. 

"I'm not even going to start contemplating what this means. I . . . I've got more important things on my mind than--" Methos stopped talking, throwing his hands in the air and sitting back down at the table, burying his head in his crossed arms. "Joe is going to throw a fit." 

"I'll talk to Joe, find out who's really behind this if I can. You take care of Caitlin. That's what's important right now." 

Methos leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and let his arms hang by his sides. He suddenly missed the old days. Before Kronos had reappeared. Before Kalas had dropped in out of nowhere. Before the Hunters. The only thing keeping Methos from smashing the nearest plate into ceramic powder was the fact that Duncan was with him and had offered his help. The older Immortal wondered where he'd be without his friend. 

"Thanks, Mac." Methos stood up. It was time to face what needed to be done. "I'd better get this over with before I change my mind." 

MacLeod gathered his coat from where he'd dropped it the night before and returned the arrow to his pocket. Sliding into his rust-colored duster, Duncan gave Methos a clap on the shoulder. 

"Hold fast, my friend." 

"Always." 

"Let me know how things turn out," Duncan said, as he walked to the door. 

"I will." 

After Duncan left, Methos took a deep breath, summoned his courage, and grabbed an undamaged coat from the front closet. Sliding his broadsword into its hidden scabbard, he pulled the coat on and centered his mind. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number from memory. 

"Joe? Yeah, it's me . . . no, there's something going on. Mac's on his way over . . ." 

* * *

Autumn leaves rushed past his feet as Methos stood staring at the entrance to a familiar bar. He'd been standing in the same spot for at least fifteen minutes, trying to calm his frayed nerves. 

_I helped take out some of the most dangerous Immortals to ever spawn from the earth, yet I can't even walk into one friend's place and explain to another about what and who I am. Get moving, old man, or you'll spend the next five thousand years on the sidewalk._

"She won't wait forever, Adam." Joe Dawson walked out the front door, holding it open. "Just walk inside and go for it. Caitlin agreed to meet you here--that tells me she's got more than a little courage and a lot of faith. In you, I might add." 

Swallowing his apprehension, Methos walked up to his friend, then stopped. 

"Do you know where that bolt came from?" 

Joe sighed, then shook his head. 

"Whoever is using those things is being awfully damn secretive. My guess is that somebody leaked information about the Watchers, or else we've got an impostor in the ranks. And from what Mac told me, it seems like our mystery person is after _you_ for something." 

Him, not Adam Pierson. Methos looked grim. 

"That's what I was afraid of." He walked through the doorway. 

"I'll be in my office if you need me," Joe said. 

Methos entered the bar, moving past tables with chairs resting on their tops. During the day the place was closed, but one table at the back had been left set up, and it was there that Caitlin sat waiting. Seeing Methos, she was at first wide-eyed with shocked surprise, then tentative acceptance of the fact that he was truly still alive. When Adam came over to her, she stood up, fully intending to yell at him, hit him, anything to get him to tell her the truth. Instead, she covered her face with her hands and started shaking. 

Methos embraced her in a warm hug, not knowing what else to do as Cait buried her face against his shoulder and cried. 

"Who are you, Adam? How are you walking around after being shot?" Caitlin's voice was muffled against cable-knit wool. 

"I wanted you to meet me here so I could explain. And I will. There's someplace I want you to see." 

* * *

"Where did you find all of this? Do you have any idea what some of those museums out there would pay to even glimpse at this stuff?" Caitlin was walking around Methos' house, taking in everything with near reverence. Methos nodded. 

"It's all mine, Cait." 

"Borrowed? On loan?" 

_Here goes._

"I've been collecting it all for over fifty centuries." 

Caitlin paused in her scrutiny of a hand-forged bracelet, turned to give the man behind her a look of disbelief as he leaned against the wall. 

" . . . " 

"You wanted to know how I survived." Methos pulled his sweater up to reveal the spot where he'd been hit. It was, of course, completely healed over without a trace of injury. 

"That--that's impossible," Caitlin said, walking away from the artifact she'd been looking at before she could drop it in complete surprise. "Five thousand years--that would be about when the Bronze Age started. . ." She reached out to the healed area, touching it briefly before jerking her hand back as if it had been burned. "How?" 

"I'm Immortal." 

"Immortal as in, 'I can't die at all' Immortal?" 

"For all practical purposes, yes. The only way I can die is by losing my head." Methos pulled his dagger and drew it across his palm in a deep line. Blood immediately welled up from the slice, which began healing an instant later, tiny slivers of lightning flashing along its edges. Wiping his hand along the inside of his coat, Adam showed the perfectly healed flesh to his guest. Caitlin sat down in a high-backed chair that looked more like a small throne and allowed herself to assimilate what she'd just heard and seen. It was all so bizarre . . . 

". . . this is too hard to believe." Yet the proof was surrounding her on all sides. 

Methos pulled the Ivanhoe from his coat, resting it in his hands and showing it to Cait from a safe distance. 

"We're forced to confront each another in one on one combat. Once it starts, no other Immortal can intervene. It's part of something we call the Game." He let Cait reach out to the blade, watching as she dared to run a fingertip lightly along the edge, feeling microscopic nicks in the metal. She watched the tiny cut on her finger. Yes, the sword was quite real. "Most of us use swords in our battles, but a few have been known to use other types of weapons. Holy Ground is the only place we're truly safe from one another." 

"Duncan's like you, isn't he." It was a simple statement of realization. 

"Yes. Richie is, too." 

"It makes sense, now. Your wanting to evade questions, Mac running around with a katana and sending me to that church. Richie's reaction when I joked about you having a sword in your coat. I never dreamed any of it was true." Caitlin finished her analysis of the broadsword, her mind still buzzing with unanswered questions. 

"This Game. What's the point of it? You walk down the street, meet another Immortal, agree to whack each other, and only one of you lives. Somebody's family ends up a little smaller. You go home, and the next day the same thing happens. Doesn't the idea scare the hell out of you guys? Doesn't it drive you insane after so many centuries?" 

"There's always someone left wondering, somewhere. It's part of what we are. You either fight, or die. The Game won't allow any of us to stay hidden forever. Believe me, I've tried more than once." Adam got a distant look in his eyes for a minute, then continued. "As for the Game itself, most of us believe in a Prize that awaits us. We battle each other until the day of the final Gathering, when there can be only One." 

"One. One what? One Immortal? One Prize? One Gathering?" 

"Nobody has a definite answer. It's something we need to discover on our own." 

"And where do you stand in all of this?" 

Methos considered the question for a moment. 

"Personally, I don't care about the Prize, if there is such a thing. I fight to survive. For me, the Game isn't about being the ultimate winner, it's about not losing the battle." 

Caitlin absorbed his words, still amazed at what she was hearing. 

"It must be tough on a kid knowing that at least one of his parents are going out one night and might not come back." 

"We can't bear children. It's part of the price we pay for getting to live forever. Immortals are perfectly 'normal' people until their first death. After that, their lives change forever." 

"How do you know when somebody is Immortal? Besides the long coats, I mean." 

Methos smiled at the joke, glad for even a little of the tension to be relieved. 

"We can sense each other in our minds, kind of like a mental tap on the shoulder. Pre-Immortal people can set off our 'radar' as well, but on a lesser scale." 

"Am . . . am I going to be Immortal?" 

"Do you really want me to tell you?" 

Caitlin seemed ready to say yes, then shook her head. 

"No, don't bother. I've got enough to think about right now besides worrying about somebody with a blade coming after me." Caitlin stretched, working out the past night's worries. 

_Let's hope that's true, for now._ Methos stretched as well, letting out a slow breath. His explanation and Caitlin's acceptance had gone better than he'd hoped. Whether that was a good thing or a bad one remained to be seen. They stood in silence, neither one knowing what else needed to be said. Caitlin finally broke the awkward moment. 

"So where does this leave our friendship?" 

"It doesn't have to end. I'd rather it didn't. Although being my friend can be dangerous at times." 

"I'll deal with it. That's what friendship is about--taking the rough times with the good." 

Methos felt most of the weight of the past two days leave him, and he gestured at his desk where a large, leather-bound volume lay, its pages open. 

"Let me show you some of my journals." Methos carefully turned some of the fragile papyrus pages, the cuneiform writing faded in many places but still legible. 

"These are some of my earlier entries from when I was traveling through the land of the Pharaohs . . . " 

* * *

Much later that day, Methos sat in his chair, enjoying the fading sunset as he sipped at a mug of hot chocolate, something he'd always liked but hadn't been hooked on until meeting Caitlin. 

"So it looks like everything's going to work out, I think." Methos was on the phone with MacLeod, idly swirling the remains of his cocoa in one hand as he related the day's events to the Highlander. 

"Glad to hear it." A pause. "Keep an eye on her, Adam. I'd hate to see her dragged into the Game before her time." 

"I'll do my best, but I can't follow her around twenty-four hours a day. Cait's a smart girl, Mac--she can take care of herself without us playing bodyguard. But I'll do what I can." 

"That's all I'm asking." 

"A den mother through and through. Goodnight, Mac." Methos turned off the cordless phone to the sound of a sarcastic "ha, ha, ha" at the other end. Banking the fire, the Immortal retreated to his couch, laying back and staring up through the skylight at the patterns the oak leaves were making against the stars. He thought about the stories he'd told Caitlin, translating a few passages here and there from his journals, and fell asleep thinking about the rich gardens of Babylon. 

* * *

A loud ringing brought Methos back to the waking world. It was his phone. Shaking sleep from his mind, the ancient man growled under his breath as he snatched the thing up and answered in his best "go away I'm sleeping" voice. 

"Adam Pierson, I take it." The voice was deep, unrecognizable. 

"What could I possibly help you with at four a.m.?" Methos was losing patience. 

"It's not I who needs helping." A different voice came across the line. "Adam, it's me. I'm sorry--he made me call you--" 

Any trace of sleep remaining in Methos disappeared as an icicle of dread shot through his spine. 

"Cait? What happened? Where are you?" 

"I--" The deep voice returned. "Meet us down by the old wharf in twenty minutes. Don't be late." The line went dead. 

Methos cursed loudly in Aramaic and threw the phone onto the couch. 

Looks like I'll be paying up on my 'promise' already, Highlander. Methos pulled his coat from the doorway, glad that he'd fallen asleep in his clothes. Stomping his feet into his boots, he was out the door in under thirty seconds. 

* * *

Caitlin sat on damp sand, her wrists bound behind her around an old wooden support pillar that had once held up a fishing dock. It was more like being tied to a tree, since the pillar was at least that wide. She kept her gaze focused out on the sea, the waves gently rippling in the predawn darkness. Sandpipers ran back and forth, chasing the water as it deposited insects along the tide line. She stared out at the ocean mainly to avoid looking at her captor. How she had gotten here in the first place was still kind of fuzzy in Caitlin's mind. 

_Drugged. Don't know by what . . ._ The thought of being permanently "out of it" for the rest of her life scared Caitlin more than the dark figure pacing slowly to one side of her pillar. She remembered being forced to call Adam. Then a sensation of something sharp, and everything had gone hazy. 

"Relax. The drug should be wearing off soon." Her captor knelt down in front of her, his features made more foreboding in the dark light. Caitlin stared back at him, refusing to let any fear show. Whoever the man was, he hadn't done anything past taunting her and occasionally laughing to himself. The tension transferred itself away from Cait as sand and gravel shot out from a set of tires. Her jailer suddenly stared past her, at something only he could sense. 

"Ah, just in time." The mystery man stood, pulled a long, wide broadsword from a scabbard hung from his back. The blade was huge, and meant to be used two-handed. The current wielder only used one, swinging the blade casually as if it were a toothpick. Turning around, he shared her view of a truck parking and a figure stepping out from behind the wheel. Slamming the door, the new arrival made his way over to the pair. Adam Pierson stood his ground, his face barely hiding the anger he was feeling. The other Immortal held his blade out at Methos, point first. 

"The woman remains where she is until the battle is done." The voice was deep, accented but difficult to pin down. Long dark hair, pale green eyes. Dressed in studded leather and quilted wool as if it were still the medieval age. He waved his left hand in greeting, making sure Methos saw his wrist. It was tattooed. With an inverted red Watcher's symbol. Crossed over with swords. 

Methos didn't waste time. 

"Who are you?" His voice was cold and precise. The innocent graduate student had been left in the car. The other man rested his blade, an oversized Mongolian broadsword, across one shoulder. 

"You may call me Azazel. What's important here, however, is that I've found you." 

"And who do you think I am?" Methos stood, hands in his coat pockets, leaning back slightly as though he were waiting for a taxi. 

"I've been watching you for quite a long time, Pierson. Judging from your fighting skills you're not new by any means, and I've been gathering information on the older members of our kind. A lot of things about you just don't match, and that only proves something I've been wondering about . . . " 

"That would be quite an image to uphold; I'm flattered you think so highly of me." Methos scuffed a foot through the sand, kicked some from his boot, acting as though his opponent spoke of the weather. 

"I've had my people scattered throughout the Watchers for some time now. They've been keeping eyes on the more powerful Immortals. Unfortunately, Darius was taken before I could get to him. You, however, are here. And I intend to take your Quickening." The dark-haired man shifted into a battle stance. "If you are truly who I believe you to be, taking your power will make me the strongest Immortal on the face of the earth. And then the Prize will simply be a matter of judicious beheadings on my part." 

Methos drew his own blade, cast a quick glance at Caitlin through the slowly lightening dawn. She looked tired and somewhat glassy-eyed but alert enough to watch what was happening. He returned his attention to his enemy. 

"If you've hurt her in any way I'll make you feel every second of pain she did." 

"She's unharmed. You, however, will not be able to make that same resolution shortly." With that, Azazel struck out with his sword, deadly steel arcing towards Methos. The older man blocked the cut, and the battle was joined. 

* * *

Caitlin watched the two men swordfighting, sparks flying from their blades. Despite everything she'd seen and heard from Adam, seeing the real thing was still quite a shock. There was no honorable salute, no rules of gentlemanly conduct. It was quick, fast paced, and dirty. Sword maneuvers were combined with an occasional kick or attempted trip, each man trying to find a weakness in the other. Cait felt something catch in her throat as Adam took a swipe across one side and went to the ground. The Mongolian blade swung downward-- 

Snatching a handful of wet sand, Methos threw it into Azazel's eyes, temporarily blinding him, and rolled out of the way, slamming a booted foot into the challenger's face as he returned to his feet. Azazel swiped the sand out of his eyes and continued the battle. 

Methos backed away from the other Immortal, breathing hard, feeling the ting of several cuts that were already healing. His sweater was a mass of rents, the fabric barely holding together in some places. The other combatant was in a similar state, the leather across his chest nearly torn through. 

"Tell me, my friend, who were your contemporaries? Was Rome truly as great as they say? Did Vesuvius erupt from a Quickening on Holy Ground, or is that a legend as well?" 

"You should've been there!" Methos feinted an attack, trapped the other man's blade with his own, spun the broadsword out of Azazel's hand, then followed through with the same move that had taken Silas, a one-handed swing that was as beautiful in its grace as it was deadly in its effect. The antagonist dropped as Methos stepped back, part of him regretting the fact that Caitlin had been a forced witness to the battle. 

_No matter._ The rational side of his mind argued with the emotional. _Someday she'll be fighting as well._

Caitlin had been too fascinated by the duel to turn away from what she knew would be coming at the end. She had been spared a totally clear view of the result due to the dim lighting, but even watching silhouettes was harrowing enough. 

_Holy . . ._ Her mind accepted what was happening more readily than she'd expected, but it still shook her to the bone. Caitlin's shock melded with incredulous surprise as she saw a heavy white mist surround Azazel's body seemingly out of nowhere, and a bolt of lightning jumped from him to Adam. 

More bolts followed from the sky, fierce and intense, striking him again and again as he held his broadsword to the sky and stood facing the ocean, screaming something over the rushing wind that had accompanied the mist. Whether Adam was actually saying something or merely calling out a wordless cry of victory was impossible to tell from Caitlin's distance from the battleground. Sand and seawater were thrown several feet into the air, the water reduced to steam wherever a bolt of lightning struck it. The tide rose impossibly fast, covering the fallen Immortal's body and swirling around Methos as it swelled nearly two feet in a matter of seconds. 

A final, massive arc of energy stuck the victorious Immortal, and he fell to the sand, kneeling on one knee as he held onto his blade with both hands. Shockwaves rippled through the ground as billowing clouds of vapor partially obscured Methos from view. The dying wind slowly pulled it away, revealing the still-kneeling figure on the sand as the first rays of sun crept into the sky. The tide fell back to its normal ebb and flow. Azazel's body was nowhere to be seen. Methos stayed where he was a few minutes longer, allowing himself to return as the aftereffects of the Quickening left him. Slowly he got to his feet, stumbling a little as he regained his balance. Walking over to Caitlin, he cut her free of the post, then sat down heavily beside her. He was dripping wet from the saltwater, covered with windblown sand, and his sweater looked like it had been put through a shredder, but he had survived. He looked at Caitlin, who met his gaze. 

_This is how it will be if we remain friends,_ Methos' eyes seemed to say. Caitlin's own stare, however, contained only acceptance and the beginnings of understanding. 

"I know," she said, responding to Methos' unspoken thought. "I don't quite understand it all yet, but I know." 

Methos dropped his sword and leaned back against the post next to Caitlin, the draining effects of the Quickening finally catching up to him. Cait took one of his hands into her own, a gesture of support, and together they watched the sun rise over the city as it set the ocean ablaze with golden light. 

* * *

"There's no entry on this 'Azazel' anywhere?" 

"No. Whoever he was, he was pretty good at keeping himself out of view." Joe Dawson closed the Chronicle he'd been scanning. Methos sat at a table in Joe's tavern, sitting across from him. He had been relating the day's events to Joe and Duncan, who shared the table with him and Caitlin. 

"I guess it only stands to reason that another Immortal would catch on to the idea of hiding among Watchers." Methos took a long swallow of ale, the cold brew softening the edges of the day's events. 

"It just goes to show that my people have to get their acts together--again--and start being more careful. Things aren't like they used to be." Joe plucked at the guitar settled on his lap, pulling at some of the strings as he tuned the instrument. He could remember a time when everything had been cleanly divided between Watchers and Immortals. Remembered how he'd occasionally take a break from working in Shakespeare and Company to go for a stroll, when he was really following a certain Highlander as he went about daily life. And then James Horton had witnessed an Immortal going on a rampage, taking out innocent people, and things had been changed forever. 

"Why Watch if it's so dangerous?" Caitlin had been intrigued by Joe's explanation of his secret society earlier that night. 

"Because the legacy of Immortals has to be recorded. If we don't do it, two thousand years from now all anybody will remember is a bunch of half-baked stories that aren't even based on fact. Think of what we're still missing from all of the cultures that have lived throughout the ages." Joe's intense blue eyes looked at Caitlin as he cast his gaze over the strings on the guitar, giving them an experimental strumming. Satisfied, the Watcher leaned the instrument against another table. 

"This has been fun, gang, but I've got to open up the place. Five o'clock is prime time around here." Joe stood up and headed over to the front door. Caitlin stood as well, saying, "Back in a minute, guys." She headed over to the bar, seeking out something to eat. Duncan sipped thoughtfully at his scotch. 

"Did you tell her?" 

"No." Methos put his empty mug on the table. "She asked, but changed her mind before I could answer." 

"She'll find out over the course of time. They all do." Duncan looked up at Caitlin, amazingly together after what she'd been put through during the past few days. "The Game never lets anyone stay left out for long." 

"No, it doesn't." Methos stared down into the remnants of beer foam settling at the bottom of his mug. "And it seems like they keep getting younger every time." He couldn't clearly remember his first awakening, his first death, but the ancient Immortal could still recall shadowed feelings of being afraid and alone. Had he ever been as young as Caitlin? It was so difficult to remember . . . The subject of his thoughts returned to the table with an armful of pretzel baskets. Depositing the two containers between her companions, Caitlin caught their moody expressions. 

"I go away for five seconds and this happens? Come on, guys, we're supposed to be having fun," she teased. 

"We were just--" 

"--trying to protect me from something Immortal related." Caitlin's smile faded slightly as she interrupted Methos, but her light humor stayed as she sat back down. 

"Really, guys, I think you're both wonderful friends, but it's okay. I can handle this. One bad experience isn't going to keep me away from you." Duncan laughed, and the warm mood at their table returned. Methos smiled. 

"I think we could all use another round of drinks. Any takers?" The vote was unanimous, and soon the three were content with full mugs. Up on stage, a new blues band made of university students was beginning to set up, the lead guitarists eagerly awaiting their chance to perform. Methos slouched back into his chair, then abruptly put his beer down and took his leather string out, untying the end. Carefully undoing the bronze ring, he removed one half, retying the Latin half back in place. He took one of Caitlin's hands in his own and placed the ring into her palm. 

"Keep it. As a symbol of our friendship." 

Caitlin looked at the intertwined circle in awe, marveling at the highly detailed craftmanship. 

"It's beautiful . . . " Cait slid the ring on a finger, still enchanted by the ancient treasure. The warm smile she sent Methos was all the thanks the Immortal needed. "Where did you find it?" 

"An old friend of mine. Of ours, actually." Methos gestured at the Highlander. He glanced up at Mac, knowing how the subject he was referring to was still raw with Duncan, but MacLeod gave him a nod as he drank his scotch. Methos looked at his own circle of bronze, preparing the tale in his mind as the Latin inscription flared in the soft lighting. 

"His name was Darius . . . " 

THE END 

* * *

© 1997-2000   
Please send comments to the author! 

04/07/1998 

* * *


End file.
